


Last Chance

by Calais_Reno



Series: Many Happy Returns [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bars and Pubs, Don't copy to another site, Forgiveness, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Magical Realism, POV Sherlock Holmes, Regret, Second Chances, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26543053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: In a bar somewhere, Sherlock runs into an old friend who is willing to make a deal with him.OR: After two years, Sherlock comes home to John.
Relationships: Irene Adler & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Many Happy Returns [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880692
Comments: 49
Kudos: 168





	Last Chance

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Последний шанс](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27657014) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



On a nearly-deserted street in a town somewhere in the Balkans, Sherlock Holmes is smoking his last cigarette. He’s tired, so tired. And he hurts— physically, emotionally, mentally— every way possible. The events of the last few days are fuzzy. A thought presses on his consciousness: _maybe I have amnesia._ And a question: _Why would I have amnesia?_ And a concern _: What’s happened to me?_

He does remember John. How could he forget him? He has catalogued every brilliant smile, every eyebrow quirk, every angry sniff, and all the different ways he says _Sherlock._ Fondly, when Sherlock’s done something _amazing_ ; blankly, when he means _I still don’t get it;_ crossly, when he finds something grisly in the fridge.

He especially remembers the last time he heard John say his name. He saw him get out of a cab, his phone pressed to his ear. They talked. John looked up and saw him on the roof. He remembers telling him, _I’m sorry._ He remembers John screaming his name, and hearing a terror he’d never heard in his voice.

 _Look what I’ve done,_ he thought as the ground rose to meet him.

He doesn’t like remembering. Everything about that day was wrong. John’s face, stricken; his choked voice; his hands, shaking as they sought Sherlock’s wrist. There were thirteen possibilities, but ultimately only one certainty.

The amnesia didn’t start there, though. He’s fairly sure of that. He remembers a plane that took him to the Balkans, a dingy hotel where he lay awake in a narrow bed, wondering what he’d committed himself to. He thought about John, those final words between them, and this made his heart ache. He hopes it won’t be the last time he hears John’s voice.

But he needs to get on with things, if it’s to be worth the sacrifice. And so he remembers a list of names, people to locate, operations to shut down. John once called him a _machine,_ and that’s what he becomes: a deducing, shadowing, stalking, lying, killing machine. And he remembers he’s doing it for John.

Weeks and months blur. The concepts of sooner, later, recent, remote all float by, a fog muffling his memories. He doesn’t know anymore. He only knows that it’s for John.

He stubs out his cigarette. Imagines John saying, _Sherlock…_

There’s a bar across the street with the (maybe) ironic name _Last Chance Saloon._ He’s hungry and he wants another cigarette. The fact that he doesn’t have any money in his pockets doesn’t stop him from crossing the street and pushing the door open.

A wall of smoke hits him and he inhales the second-hand nicotine gratefully. Based on the name, he’d expected something with an American theme, maybe swinging doors and a tinny piano, but it’s just as drab and depressing as every other Eastern European bar he’s been in. Wooden chairs scrape across a concrete floor. The bar area has a sixties-psychedelic vibe, with a lava lamp and posters of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and James Morrison in day-glo orange and pink.

He smells fried potatoes and something that might be sausage, and even if it’s the worst food he’s ever tasted, he’s willing to give it a try. He can’t remember when he last ate. These days he cuts it pretty close, but narrow escapes have taught him to watch his transport and eat when something edible turns up. He’ll talk somebody into feeding him. He’s not sure what his side of the exchange will be, but he’s open to negotiating.

There are only a few other patrons besides himself. Two women, both with the smudged eyes of Slavs, their hair bottle-blond. Three men sit around a table playing cards. Maybe he can ask to join their game and cheat well enough to get a meal out of it.

As he walks towards them, he sees a ghost sitting at the bar. It can’t be anything else but a ghost; Irene Adler is dead.

She’s sipping a glass of red wine and doesn’t seem surprised to see him.

“Don’t eat the food,” she says, motioning to the bartender to bring another glass. She pours it herself and sets it before him, taking in his dreadful hair and clothes with a glance. “You look like hell.” This makes her smile.

He finds it funny as well. Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler in the Last Chance Saloon, the last place on earth either would want to be caught. Maybe this is Hell.

She’s wearing a lacy black dress, fairly demure by her standards, a satin ribbon around her neck, a small cameo pinned in the front. It’s quaintly old-fashioned, rather Victorian for a dominatrix, perhaps, but he doesn’t know a lot about what look a dominatrix might aim for when she’s drinking wine in a dive bar.

“You look very nice,” he says, “especially for someone who’s dead.”

She smiles. “It’s all relative. When you’ve got all the time in the world, it’s not hard to look good. You, on the other hand, look deader than me.”

He raises his glass to her. “Thank you.”

The wine is good, better than what you’d expect to find in a place like this. Being dead might be what makes that possible. He hadn’t pictured the afterlife quite like this.

“It’s not the afterlife,” she says, somehow reading his thought.

His eyes are drawn to the little cameo. What he first saw as the profile of a woman is actually a tiny skull.

“What is this place then?”

She smiles. “Haven’t you deduced it?”

All available evidence points to one conclusion. Irene is dead, and so is he. He’s not sure how he feels about this. There is a certain detachment that comes from finding oneself already dead, rather than dying. Dying was unpleasant, as he recalls now. Quite painful— and unnecessary, since he didn’t have the information that his captors were attempting to beat out of him.

Such a waste, to be dead in a place with no redeeming features. He should have died somewhere more interesting. “Why are we here, if it’s not the afterlife? Can we leave?”

“It’s your last chance,” she says. Whatever look he’s giving her seems to annoy her. “Don’t be tedious, Mr Holmes. I’m sure you grasp the essentials. Last chance, only chance.”

“I know that wasn’t your corpse in the morgue,” he says, “but the last I heard, you _were_ actually dead. Mycroft wouldn’t tell me, but I found out. You were in Karachi, captured by a band of terrorists. Lost your head, so to speak.”

He looks at the ribbon more closely. _Beheaded,_ the report said. He found the video to see for himself. It made him sad to think she was really dead, but not in the way that John had thought. Even an interesting and intelligent woman didn’t tempt him in that sense. But it felt like a waste of her talents. She might have lived a very different life.

“I’m waiting here,” she says, “for my chance. I thought it might be you.”

“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to offer you much, Miss Adler. I seem to have found myself in the same situation, having been captured by a similar band of terrorists with a similar intent.”

She nods. “Here, we trade what we have. Seeing as I’m rather fond of living, I’m prepared to make a deal with you.” She pulls out her phone and touches the screen. It’s pink, which seems incongruous, since everything around them is either neon or drab. “I don’t need to ask what you want.” She holds the phone up so he can see the screen.

It’s John, standing at a bus stop. Obviously going to work at some dull surgery where he will treat sore throats and haemorrhoids, rashes and UTIs. He looks a bit lost, thinner than the last time Sherlock saw him, his eyes dimmer.

Seeing this makes his insides lurch. He did all this to save John, to give him a chance at a happy life, regardless of what happened to Sherlock. The John he sees is not happy. Was it all for nothing? No, he will have to return and save John, yet again.

“As for me—“ She shrugs. “I’d really like to keep my head.”

She runs a finger under the ribbon. Something dark is concealed under that narrow strip of satin, something possibly horrific. For a moment, Sherlock wonders if she’s going to show him something he won’t be able to delete from his Mind Palace.

“All right,” he says. “How does this work?”

She pours more wine into their glasses. “You need a witness, someone who knows you and can testify as to why you deserve to live, and then you can walk through those doors, back into your life. I’m your witness, you’re mine. I give reasons on your behalf, you give reasons on mine. You first.”

He considers this for a moment. “Well, you’re very intelligent— probably the most intelligent woman I’ve met. A bit ruthless as well, but an intelligent person tends to see the risks before others do, and will make a smart gamble, as you did with me. You’re the only woman who has ever beaten Sherlock Holmes.”

She shakes her head. “Not good enough.”

“What do you mean? Being intelligent doesn’t matter?”

“Surprising, isn’t it?” She’s looking in a little hand-mirror, reapplying blood-red lipstick. “Here we are, two people who’ve always believed that being the smartest person in the room is the end game, the goal in life.”

“Isn’t it?”

“What did they say about you at your funeral?” she asks. “At least you had one, even though you weren’t really dead. Did people say how brilliant you were? Does John grieve because he misses your brain?”

“He said I was the best man, the most human… human being he’d ever known.”

“There you go. Intelligence isn’t a beloved trait. At your funeral, people talk about what you contributed to humanity, not how many people you outwitted. So, why do I deserve to live?”

“Let’s see. You’re manipulative, and you use information to extort people...“ He pauses. “Is it necessary to be honest?”

“Yes. If you tell a lie, you’ll burn in Hell.” She laughs. “Not really, but do try.”

“You’re a survivor. Well, up until…” He glances at her neck. “I mean, life is survival; the fittest win and live to play another day. If we judge by the rules of the species, you have excelled.”

“That’s better, but all survivors eventually lose. I made a mistake, and I lost. The question is, do I deserve another chance? Have I made the world a better place for anyone in any way?”

He remembers what he felt when he learned she was dead. “The world is less interesting without you. Intelligence does matter, and beauty, and pleasure. Without those things, the world is bland, boring, and stupid. You have given these things freely.”

She regards him evenly for a while. “I do believe that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me.”

“Right, so… you’re good? You have your second chance?”

As he says this, he has a vision. Irene in black robes, her head covered, kneeling on the ground. She is typing a message on her phone while a man holding a rifle waits. Another man holding a sword steps up once she hands over the phone. He takes aim at her neck.

And he realises that _he is the man with the sword_.

 _When I say run,_ run _!_

He opens his eyes. Irene has hopped off her bar stool and is smoothing her dress. She looks at her phone, drops it in her bag. “Well, that’s done. Goodbye, Mr Holmes.”

“Wait! You said we were trading favours— are you just going to leave me here?”

She rolls her eyes. “Just teasing you, my dear. I’ve been sitting here bored for the longest time, talking to the most boring dead people. Even _Hell_ must be more interesting than this place. I would never leave you here. But don’t count on ever seeing me again after we walk out of here. I’m going to New York and getting engaged to a millionaire. That’s my happy ending. Now, let’s see about yours.”

He lets out a sigh. “Yes, let’s do.”

“Hmm. You’re dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of happiness,” she says. “You frustrate those who love you, you’re obnoxious to those who don’t—“

“Yes, yes. I’m aware. No redeeming traits. I, however, said nice things about you, so could you please try?”

She smiles. “You are redeemed by the love of a very special man. He’s not brilliant, or gorgeous. He’s short-tempered, and he’s… well, he’s short, period. He’s not the kind of person who stands out in a crowd or draws attention to himself— like some people we know. But he is brave and kind and wise in ways that you are not. And the fact that he loves you—“

His heart leaps up into his throat, constricting his voice. “Who are we talking about?”

“Sherlock, you know who I mean. He killed a man for you. Do you doubt that he loves you?”

“We’re not a couple. He’s not… gay.”

She snorts. “Well, he’s certainly not straight. Believe me, I would have noticed. But what does it matter? We’re talking about love. The fact that such a good man loves you can only mean that you deserve to live.”

Smiling, she closes her eyes. “Yes, I think that could happen,” she murmurs.

He waits for the epiphany, but nothing happens. “Am I… alive again?”

She nods towards the door. “When you walk out of here, you will be. It will be unpleasant, but you’re about to be rescued by that pretentious brother of yours. You’ll be home in a few weeks.”

“We’re even, then.”

“We are.” She smiles. “Let me give you some advice. It’s advice that’s been hard-won, so I hope you’ll appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“It isn’t a game, Mr Holmes. It never was. You and I were playing it as if it was, but we were wrong. We’ve always used our brilliance to get one-up on others, and we enjoy triumphing over ordinary minds. But there’s no prize for that.”

“I’m not interested—“

“Yes, you are.” She cocks her head at him. “Why have you never told John how you feel about him?”

“He doesn’t feel the same. Why expose myself to ridicule—“

“You’re an idiot. The risk is worth it. It’s the only thing that truly is worth risking your pride, your position— your life. Especially your life.” She smiles. “It isn’t a game. People might look at John Watson as a loser— and he’s certainly lost a lot. But he’s better off than you because he has finally realised what matters.”

“Which is… what?”

“ _You_ matter to him. He understands now that he loved you.”

“Loved… me?” He realises that he’s been reduced to repeating her words, and he always hates repetition, but it’s just _huge_ — this realisation that John loves him.

 _Loved_ him.

“He’ll be angry,” he says.

She laughs. “You have no idea.”

“But— how will I win him back?”

“You haven’t lost him. He’ll be angry, but he loves you. Respect that, and treat him with care. Don’t try to be smart, explaining how you did your disappearing trick or treating it like a joke. Respect his feelings. Don’t do all the talking. _Listen to him._ Tell him that you love him. He may not appreciate it the first time you apologise, but he will hear you.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I am. It’s given me a new perspective, waiting here and realising what I’ve lost. And I think that you’ve lost even more than I have. You might have had something that I can only hope I’ll have a chance to win— the selfless love of another person. John’s waited so long, Sherlock. He’s imagined so many times, and has accepted that he’ll never actually hear you say it. So it will be a shock to him.”

“He’ll probably hit me,” Sherlock muses. If he knows anything about John Watson, it’s that he has a quick temper and a ready fist.

“He probably will. But he will come back.”

He nods. “What about you? Where will you go now?”

“New York.” She smiles. “New name, new life, last chance. I intend to use it to reinvent myself.”

The door opens, blowing another unfortunate person into Limbo. She’s looking around, baffled, and Sherlock understands that kind of confusion.

“What the fuck,” the newcomer says. “Where the hell am I?”

He looks at her closely, going automatically into deduction mode.

_…only child linguist Clever part time nurse Shortsighted Guardian Bakes Own Bread Disillusioned Cat Lover Romantic Appendix Scar Lib Dem Secret Tattoo Size 12 Liar…_

“Have a seat at the bar,” he says. “You might be here for a while.”

She frowns at him. “I feel like I ought to know you.”

He grins. “You don’t.” For some inexplicable reason, it gives him a _frisson_ of delight to say this.

* * *

He is rescued, but of course Mycroft has to be tedious about it.

“A small thank-you wouldn’t go amiss,” he says. “In case you’d forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu.”

While Mycroft complains about the _awfulness_ of going undercover, Sherlock stifles his resentment. There is only one thing on his mind. Not Serbia, not the terrorist plot, not London itself. “What about John?”

Mycroft smirks. “I’ve kept a weather eye on him. I hope you’ve prepared him for your resurrection. Might be a bit overwhelming to see you back from the dead.”

He shrugs into his coat. “I’m going to Baker Street now.”

“Baker Street? He isn’t there any more.”

Hope sinks inside of him. “I suppose he’s got on with his life.”

“He has been making an effort,” Mycroft agrees. “Though I have to say he has terrible luck with women.”

“Women? He’s dating someone?”

Mycroft narrows his eyes. “You thought he would sit at home while you were gone, I suppose. Really, Sherlock. His adoration may be better than illegal substances, but you cannot continue to string him along as you did. Even goldfish deserve some care.”

“Who is the woman?”

“ _Was_.” Without changing expression, Mycroft somehow smirks. “She no longer _is.”_ He opens a folder and shows Sherlock a picture of a woman. Mid-thirties, blond hair. He’s seen this woman.

“Who is she?”

“While you were tracking down Moriarty’s associates abroad, I have been rooting them out here, in our own garden. This woman, Mary Morstan, was an associate of Moriarty— and of Sebastian Moran, who is behind the current plot. She was, until recently, employed as a nurse at the surgery where Dr Watson works. Her assignment was to get close to him. They had guessed that you were alive, and were watching him, knowing that you would seek him out on your return. Fortunately, she was intercepted, took a regrettably dangerous gamble when she was cornered, and is now dead. Dr Watson believes she was the victim of a random shooting.”

Sherlock stares at him, remembering the woman who entered the bar just as he and Irene were leaving.

“You’re welcome,” says Mycroft. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with your goldfish, however. My advice would be—“

“I don’t need any advice from you,” he snaps. “Just tell me where to find him.”

John is at the pub, just as Mycroft said. He’s sitting on a bar stool, nursing glass of scotch. His hair is shaggy, his usual military cut grown out, and he hasn’t shaved in days. Sherlock takes the seat next to him and orders a glass of Pinot Noir, as if he wasn’t _mostly dead_ just days ago, sitting at a very different bar with Irene.

It’s not yet lunch, and John has clearly decided not to go in to work today. He’s mildly pissed but not falling down drunk. Not yet, but he will be, considering that the woman whom he planned to marry is now dead.

Mary Morstan will be getting no second chances with John, he hopes, but Sherlock Holmes very badly needs another. One last chance.

_One more miracle, Sherlock, just for me._

John does not look up as he slides onto his stool.

Sherlock thanks the bartender when his glass is set before him and tries to think how to open the conversation. They sit in silence for a few moments.

“I stopped seeing you for a while,” John says, staring straight ahead. “I don’t know if you noticed, you being dead and all. At first you were always there, following me around, making comments.”

Sherlock takes a sip of wine. “Was that not good?”

“Made me look a bit psychotic, talking back to you, but it was actually comforting. Not real, but a happy fantasy. In real life, you never took such an interest in me. I can’t remember us ever sitting at a bar like this. So I knew all along it wasn’t— it _isn’t_ real.”

“Mm,” he says and nods, just to acknowledge he’s listening. That’s what Irene said, that he needs to _listen_.

John finishes his drink, asks for another. He downs it quickly and signals for a refill. Sherlock watches as he raises it to his mouth and drinks, his hand shaking a bit as he sets the glass down.

He still hasn’t looked at Sherlock. After a moment, he speaks. “And here you are again.”

“Yes.”

“It seems that I’m destined to be alone.” Shaking his head, he wipes his eyes. “I had her for such a short time, even less than— well, it wasn’t that way with us, was it? No, it never was. I’d always hoped, but you weren’t like that.”

 _This isn’t about me,_ he thinks. _John has lost someone he cared about and is hurting._ His jealousy at being replaced is irrational. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t the person he thought she was. He needed someone, and she was there for him. “Was she good to you?”

He nods. “She was. Wasn’t perfect. But she came at a good time, the best thing that could have happened, really. Might say she saved my life. You saw how I was, before. She pulled me out of that, and I was grateful. Maybe that’s not the stuff that makes a solid marriage, but I couldn’t go back to— well, you know.”

“I’m so sorry, John.”

“Not your fault.” He stares into the depths of his glass. “You’re not off the hook, though. I’m still angry with you. I’ll never understand why… why you did it.”

“I know. Now I realise it was a mistake.”

John gives him a side-glance. “Do you?”

“Yes, I really do.”

He pushes down the urge to explain himself, to tell John, _Moriarty had to be stopped, there were three gunmen, you might have let the cat out of the bag_ … None of that is what John will care about right now. And it’s true, he made mistakes. If he hadn’t been flattered by Moriarty’s interest in him, so eager to take him down, if he hadn’t felt such a need to avenge all his insults, he might have trusted others to help sooner. He might have remembered that John is no idiot. He’s brave, and cautious, and can think of his feet.

“I truly regret it.”

John is smiling into his glass. “Can a dead man have regrets?”

He hesitates. However he breaks the news, it will be difficult.

“You asked me for a miracle, John,” he says. “I don’t do miracles, though. Never did. But I wasn’t a fake. You were right about that. I lied to protect you, and you didn’t swallow it. I’m not sure I ever deserved your loyalty.”

John is looking at him now, shifting emotions flitting across his face. _Anger_ , for sure. But there’s also heartache and grief and regret— all of these struggling with unexpected hope.

“Please, John. Give me a chance. If you are willing, I promise I won’t need another.”

“Sherlock?” His voice is choked, his face starting to pale. “No, it’s not possible—“

He lays his hand on John’s, feels him trembling. “I’m not dead.”

He sees the faint coming on, John’s eyes rolling back, his body going slack, and he’s ready to catch him. The bartender comes to them, concerned, and pours a glass of water.

“He can usually hold it better,” he says. “Would you like me to call you a cab?”

“Please.” He holds John so he can lean against him, lifts the water to his lips. “Just a sip, John. You’re all right.”

John looks up at him and jerks in surprise. “Jus’ a dream…” he mutters.

Sherlock brushes the too-long hair off his forehead. “No, John, I’m real. You’re not dreaming. Here’s the cab. I’m going to take you home now.”

The cab ride is silent. John is holding himself away from Sherlock, his eyes closed, his lips moving. Sherlock wonders if he’s praying.

When the cab stops at Baker Street, John doesn’t seem surprised. He closes his eyes, his lips trembling. “You’re gonna leave me again.”

“No, John. I’m home now, and I’m staying. Come inside with me.”

John gives his head a little shake, but gets out of the cab and stands on the pavement, swaying a bit. Sherlock manhandles him up the stairs and sits him down in his chair, taking his own seat opposite.

“Shall I make tea?” he asks.

John laughs. He laughs so hard that he begins to cry. “Now I know you’re not real. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t make tea.”

He kneels at John’s feet and takes his hands. “You think this is a dream, but it’s not. _I’m_ not. I’m alive, and I won’t leave you again.”

Tears roll down John’s face. “You’re dead, and I’m drunk.”

Sherlock reaches up and lays a hand on his face. “Not dead. But yes, you are drunk. Let me put you to bed.”

He allows himself to be undressed and laid in Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock pulls the curtains closed. In the darkness, John looks up at him, his eyes shining. “Please. Don’t leave. Not again.”

Sherlock strips down and puts on a pair of pyjama bottoms. Slipping between the sheets, he pulls John into his arms, holds him as he falls asleep.

_Tell him you love him._

“I love you,” he whispers into the grey-blond hair. John is asleep. This is just for practice, to hear the words out loud.

He doesn’t dream; his exhaustion puts him right under, and he doesn’t resurface until he sees no light coming through the curtains. It’s night. He opens his eyes and sees John staring at him.

“I love you,” he says.

John’s face crumples. “You bastard.”

But it’s dark outside and warm in Sherlock’s bed and there is very little clothing between them. Sherlock holds John closer and feels his heart beating.More importantly, his own heart is beating, which means he is no longer mostly dead. He has his second chance. “I love you, John.”

For a long time John doesn’t speak, but buries his head in Sherlock’s chest. He cries, his warm tears soaking through the t-shirt.

_Respect his feelings. Listen to him._

Sherlock rubs his back, kisses his hair, his ear, his eyebrow. He waits.

Finally, John says, “I love you too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” But he kisses Sherlock. “Someday,” he says. “You’re going to have to tell me how you pulled it off. But not today. Now, come here.”

* * *

It’s almost a year later when Sherlock receives a small, square envelope in the mail. _Mrs Godfrey Norton,_ reads the return address, _11 E. 95_ _th_ _Street, New York City, New York_.

_Mr and Mrs Godfrey Norton_

_Wish to Announce_

_Their Marriage_

_13 September 2014_

“What’s that?” John asks, glancing up. He’s typing up something for his blog.

“Irene’s married,” he says, handing him the announcement.

John’s eyebrows rise up into his fringe. “Does this mean we’re inviting her to ours?”

“She won’t come.”

“Well, maybe we should send her a gift,” John says. “I feel like we owe her something. She was the one who told me we were a couple. Made me realise how obvious I was.”

Sherlock smiles. “She said I was an idiot.”

“You’re not.”

“What she meant was, I should have told you a long time ago how I felt. I might have spared myself— and you— a lot of misery.”

“Then we’re both idiots.” John abandons his laptop. “The important thing is that you’re _my_ idiot.”

Sherlock takes him into his arms, leans his head into John’s neck. Tears prickle in his eyes. “Thank you.”

“For marrying you?”

“For giving me another chance.”

John kisses away his tears. “I will always have another chance for you, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have one more written, a couple more planned.  
> The next one is called "Hell and Back" and is a Good Omens crossover. It will be posted in one week, on September 26.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and leaving such lovely comments on these stories! It been my pleasure to share them with you.


End file.
